


good clothes open all doors

by zjemciciastko



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Formula 2 RPF
Genre: 2020 Season, M/M, Shirtgate, mostly fluffy, the tiniest bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjemciciastko/pseuds/zjemciciastko
Summary: The realisation comes late and in hindsight, Mick should’ve known earlier.When Callum looks at him from the highest step of the Monza podium, eyes crinkling with unconcealed joy, Mick finally recognises what the weirdly pleasant tightness in his chest is.
Relationships: Callum Ilott/Mick Schumacher
Comments: 10
Kudos: 154





	good clothes open all doors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lewishamilton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lewishamilton/gifts).



> This is my first fic for this fandom and I hadn’t written anything in over a year, so double stress points for me. I had had the writer’s block for the longest time, but then shirtgate happened and my life has been ruined haha This was supposed to be a short, max 3k fic about Callum flirting with everyone and Mick thinking Callum doesn’t like him back while not noticing that Callum has been trying to woo him all this time, but I have no self-control, so this happened. Feel free to point out any typos or if anything sounds weird, I hope you can enjoy this nonetheless.  
> Happy New Year, I hope it’s good for all of you!
> 
> Dear Jazz, this is for you because we share those two brain cells and always end up fawning over the same ship. Thank you for the last year and cheers to another year of friendship! Thank you for being there for me, I hope this new year brings you all the best things, like you deserve. Love you❤️

It’s a weird year for Mick as much as it is for everyone else. He knows he has it good, better than many others, not having to worry about losing the roof over his head or the next pay check not arriving, but the uncertainness of the situation unsettles him nonetheless. He’s lived his life according to the racing calendar for so many years he hardly knows anything else.

To busy his mind, he helps his mum a lot, finally having the time for being more than a guest in his house, and plays some games. It works to a point, but the longing to be in the car again always creeps up on him unexpectedly. 

The beep of the phone startles him even though he’s been staring at the device for the good part of the last hour. Mick picks it up from the floor where it’s fallen out of his hands and checks for any cracks that might’ve appeared on the screen. Thankfully, he finds none. 

He opens the email app, expecting to find another shopping offer from a store he was meant to unsubscripe from months ago, but the content catches him by surprise. It’s from FIA which always means business, so Mick wastes no time in reading it. 

July. In July he’ll finally be back in the car. 

*

Mick’s initial joy at returning to the paddock dissipates a little when he crosses the finish line of the first race in eleventh place. The seventh he gets in the sprint race is a bit better, but overall, the whole weekend is rather underwhelming. He makes a mental note of the errors he made, the braking points that could’ve been later and the overtakes that should’ve been but weren’t. Improvement, that’s a lesson he wants to take from it. 

He stays in the garage with his mechanics long after they race had ended, going over every detail that could’ve mattered, analysing the telemetry corner after corner. When they’re finally done, it’s quite late in the afternoon and after leaving the box, Mick finds most of the other teams already halfway packed. 

He doesn’t expect to run into any other drivers so the hand that lands on his shoulder makes him jump a little.

“Hi there, mate,” Callum grins at him. He’s still dresses in the team t-shirt, hair ruffled from the time it was squished under the helmet and gloves held in his hands. Mick guesses he also must’ve had left his garage only now. 

“Hey,” he greets back. “Congratulations on your win, great job.” 

The smile is tugging on his lips before he knows it, mirroring Callum’s expression. Mick likes him. They’ve never been the best of friends, but they get along well and there’s some quiet understanding between them Mick doesn’t know the origin of but appreciates nonetheless. Callum has always been glued to Marcus’ side, but whenever Mick would catch him on his own, they’d have fun chatting not only about driving but also more mundane things. 

“Thanks, was a fun race. The ninth, I could forget about.” 

Callum scrunches his nose at the thought of no points finish; Mick shares the sentiment – he hardly has anything to brag about with those two points he can add to his name after the weekend. Maybe a win would’ve been a bit too much of a stretch, but he cannot deny that top 5 was what he had in mind ahead of going to Austria. 

“I could probably forget about the whole weekend altogether,” Mick says. He kicks one of the pebbles lying around as if it were the reason of his misfortune, and grimaces when it almost hits Callum’s calf.

Callum picks the pebble up and turns in his hand. “Is this how you’re trying to get rid of your Championship rival?” He throws it up in the air, then catching it swiftly. “Aiming for the feet would’ve been better, I think.” 

“Sorry.” Mick grins sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to.”

Callum raises an eyebrow in a badly faked disbelief. 

“We need to battle more in the upcoming races,” he says, changing the topic from the unsuccessful assault back to the one they had started with. Mick isn’t sure whether it’s a challenge or a promise. 

“I hope so,” Mick responds, sighing. “I can imagine all the flack I’ll get if I don’t fight for the championship.” 

The last sentence escapes his lips before Mick can think it through properly. It has a slight joking ring to it, but it’s definitely not something he meant to let out. He knows his name is a blessing is so many ways, opening the doors many can only dream of reaching. But at times, it’s also a weight his shoulders seem too frail to carry. 

Callum gives him a long look. 

“That’s what we have the ear plugs for. Can’t listen to the haters that way, not your problem anymore,” he points out, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

When the first wave of confusion passes over, Mick bursts into laughter, the absurdity of the sentence. From the smugness on the older man’s face, it seems that his goal was achieved.

“Thank you,” Mick says when he’s composed himself a little.

It may not be much, but somehow, it’s enough to make him feel better, part of the weight lifted from his shoulders. Humour has always worked against his insecurities, and while he’s sure it isn’t something Callum is aware of, Mick appreciates it all the more. 

Callum winks. “Now I’m saying this, but then I’ll regret it when you give me a run for my money.” 

There’s a witty response on the tip of Mick’s tongue, but the sound of the footsteps distracts him before he gets the chance to say anything. They both turn around to the source of the noise, spotting Marcus jogging towards them with a bag slung over his shoulder. Marcus stops by Callum’s side, the mask slightly crooked on his face and the sunglasses propped still on his head, even though it’s already beginning to get dark outside. 

“I’ve been trying to find you for like fifteen minutes.” Marcus pokes Callum’s shoulder with a finger accusingly. “You don’t answer your phone either.” 

“I’m gone for a few minutes and you already miss me? How sweet of you, honey,” Callum coos, slinging an arm around Marcus’ shoulder. He looks down, as he’s the taller one of the two, and Mick’s eyes dart back and forth between their faces, way too close to align with the social distancing rules. 

“Can’t live without you, darling,” Marcus shoots back, blowing Callum an obscenely loud kiss.

Mick remains silent, watching the conversation play out in front of him. He feels a little out of place in between them. It’s rare for him to spend the time with the two of them – usually it’s either half of the academy or he and Callum having some one on one chat at times. This thing right now is a bit too close to thirdwheeling. 

Mick takes a glance at his watch. “I think gotta go, it’s pretty late. See you, guys.”

It’s a cheap excuse, but he really doesn’t want to intrude on whatever it is they have between them.

They both nod at him, stepping apart, no longer glued to each other’s sides. Callum waves him goodbye, swatting Marcus on the shoulder, seemingly over a comment Mick can’t quite catch. “See you around the hotel. You know where to find me if you’re bored.” 

*

Mick _is_ bored, but it’s also nearly ten at night and he doesn’t want to bother anyone just because he’s been spending too much time with his own thoughts lately. It’s Tuesday and he doesn’t have any media duties until Thursday so he’s been mostly lounging around in his hotel room, trying to find something that would keep his attention for more than fifteen minutes. He could go to sleep, sure, but he knows how important it is to stick to the daily schedule and it isn’t sleep time yet. 

He plays with his phone, checks his WhatsApp messages and send his mum a picture of the track along with two heart emojis. The race calendar this year is more intense than usual, races packed tightly over a much shorter span of the season, and he knows it won’t be for a while until they can see each other, so he’s set on making everything easier for her. He misses her too, obviously, and the short video of Angie sprawled on the sofa, her tail waggling happily, that he receives in return, is another of those things making him miss home. 

Just before Mick can stand up from the armchair, having decided that maybe he should just go to bed in the end, A new text appears on the screen of his phone, Callum’s name showing up.

_I’m bored, saw you’re still online. Wanna play some cod?_

Mick reads the text and thinks about it for moment. He doesn’t play games that often, but it’s not like he has anything better to do at the moment. His PS4 is still lying in its case, but it won’t take long to set it up for gaming. 

_Sure_

Soon, he’s fiddling with the PlayStation cable, trying to untangle it before he connects it to the TV. It takes a minute or two, but he finally gets it right. The welcome screen appears, and Mick takes the controller that has been lying on the table up until now. 

Callum’s voice reaches his ears through the headphones. “Can you hear me?”

It’s slightly distorted but audible, some slight rustling on Callum’s side the only thing he could complain about. 

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he answers, setting the volume a little louder. “Is anyone joining us?” 

“Not that I know of,” Callum tells him. “You want to invite someone?” 

Even though Callum can’t see it, Mick shakes his head. 

“Not really,” he denies, unable to think of someone who would not only be awake but also up to play the game. He knows some other guys play too, but tonight Mick isn’t really in the mood for the loud screaming a few people match would most definitely turn into. 

“Okay then, where do we land?” 

They play a few rounds of the game, somehow Callum always dying first and Mick having to jump to his rescue. Over the time, they develop a sort of strategy and play increasingly more like a team rather than two guys just randomly jumbled together. Mick is having fun. Maybe he should ask to join one of those plays they like to stream on Twitch some time. 

“What a muppet,” Callum grumbles as his character gets shot again.

Mick watches it fall to the ground, the clown mask hitting the dirt first. He laughs at the insult Callum has been throwing around all night and presses the buttons on his controller swiftly. “There, there, I got you.” 

“My hero, what I would do without you,” Callum declares dramatically when he’s brought back to life, and Mick is glad no one can see his burning cheeks. 

It’s nearly midnight when they finish the last game, this time actually placing rather high in the standings. Mick puts the controller down on the bed and stretches his arms; the exhaustion has finally started to settle in his muscles and he massages the spot that seems to be particularly sore. 

Callum yawns, his voice muffled when he speaks up. “I’m bloody knackered.”

“I’m pretty tired, too,” Mick agrees. He stifles his own yawn when it tries to escape. 

“T’was a good game, we should do it more often,” Callum tells him as Mick is exiting the main menu of the game. “Only maybe next time actually winning something, you know.”

Mick clicks his tongue. “If you stop getting yourself killed so early, we actually might.” 

“Ooh, rude. I take back what I said about you being a hero.”

Maybe it’s a good thing Callum can’t see him right now, Mick thinks, because he doubts he’d be able to hide the grin pulling at his lips. 

“Thanks for tonight, it was fun,” he says after they’d bickered a little more. He’d happily spend some more time like that since Callum’s sense of humour is so in tune with his own, and Mick is quick to admit it’s been of the most enjoyable nights lately. 

“You’re very welcome, expect me to bother you some more. The boredom is killing me when I’m stuck in the hotel room,” Callum complains. 

It’s been the same for Mick, the fact that have to remain either on track or in the hotel normally wouldn’t be so bad, but with the back to back races happening at the same track, killing the time has become a task in itself. 

“I’ll keep you to that promise.” 

“You have my word,” Callum swears.

They chat for a few more minutes, the conversation just flowing naturally. Callum throws in a joke, Mick laughs, and it’s almost midnight when Mick unlocks his phone to check the time. 

“Night, Callum,” Mick says his goodbye when his eyelid are already closing on their own. The bed cracks under his weight as he lays down to rest on the sheets. 

Callum hums, his voice vibrating through the headphones. “Night, night. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” 

*

Sometimes, being in the factory feels even better than race weekends. Maranello is always buzzing, the engineers, team officials and about every employee in sight discussing, explaining and doing all in their might to improve the car. There’s a certain aura to the place that never fails to leave Mick in awe. He might not love the spotlight that ultimately comes with the job (and his name), but he certainly loves this.

On his way to the meeting room, Mick spots Sebastian and Charles near the simulator room, giving them a wave, and he greets Antonio who seems to be in a hurry, simply yelling _ciao_ before rushing off to some other part of the factory. He passes the championship winning cars, allowing himself a second to marvel over them, and stops for a little chat with Mattia. 

When he enters the meeting room, it’s still empty. There aren’t any signs of anyone’s presence around, so Mick pulls at the nearest chair and hangs his jacket on the rack that’s in the corner, by the multiple cabinets Mick doesn’t know the contents of. 

It isn’t anything unusual for him to be the first to arrive. There’s still good fifteen minutes left until the start of the meeting, so Mick sits down with the intention of catching up on what’s going on in social media right now. He opens up Instagram and scrolls through his feed, his thumb moving lazily over the screen with his thoughts in a different place. 

A pic of Callum catches his eye, the older man dressed up in his racing overalls, holding the helmet in his hands, about to put it on. It looks like it’s from the last weekend at Red Bull Ring, the one Mick still has mixed feelings about. Mick taps on the screen instantly, even before he gets the chance to read the caption, watching as the little heart next to the comment button turns red. He’s about to type some words too because it is a pretty good shot, but he stops with his fingers above the keyboard when Guanyu’s comment pops up above all the other ones. 

It’s another flirty remark like the countless ones he and Callum have directed at each other before, a few heart emojis thrown in for a good measure. Callum’s response has a similar tone to it, the likes each of them receive measured in thousands. 

Mick props his head on his palm, the phone lying on the table now. He taps on the screen just when it’s about to go off, repeating the motion for a good five minutes or so. Truth be told, he has seen his fair share of flirty banter between the other drives, Callum somehow always in the middle of it. Mick has never been a part of it, his own interactions with others friendly but never to that point. He wonders whether there’s something more than banter to it, but it’s hard to tell much about words posted online. In real life, the flirting is still there, albeit somehow subdued. 

The door bursts open abruptly, making Mick jump up in his seat. He quickly locks his phone, pushing it in the pocket of his jeans, and prays he looks less like a deer caught in the headlights than he feels, his heart still beating erratically when he jerks up his head to look at the doorway. 

Callum makes his way over to the table. “I saw you through the window so I brought coffee,” he says, flopping down on the seat next to Mick. “Here you are.”

The coffee is still steamy, the smell of the freshly ground beans spreading through the room. Mick takes the cup gratefully. “Thank you.”

He reaches to take the lid off, the heat of the drink warming his hands. It’s a white coffee, the taste sweet on his tongue, and Mick can imagine all the eyerolling if one of the Italians saw him drink it, but it’s his fave. 

“What do you think we’re going to do today?” he asks after taking another sip. “I heard they want us to do some interviews, I wonder if it’s something serious or just silly stuff.” 

Callum purses his lips. “Interviews? Well, good to know. I should’ve probably styled my hair, now I look like I just got out of bed.”

He tugs on a strand and rakes his fingers through said hair, messing it up even more. 

Mick tilts his head. Callum’s hair might be in a small disarray, but to Mick’s eyes it looks good. He doesn’t see what the problem is. “You look fine to me. You don’t have to worry.”

Callum glances at Mick’s face, his eyes then moving up to land on the cap sitting on Mick’s head. Before Mick can get even a one word in, Callum steals it, putting it over his own head backwards, a few strands sticking out through the hole above the size regulation. He smiles at the offended look Mick sends him. “I get why you wear the cap all the time now. You’re a smart man, mister Schumacher.” 

Heat creeps up on Mick’s cheeks. 

“I just like it,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. He’s never been particularly great at accepting the praise when it comes to anything but racing. 

If Callum took notice of Mick’s blush, he makes no comment on it. 

“It looks good on you,” he compliments again, instead. He takes the cap off and puts it back on Mick’s head. “Definitely better than on me.” 

“You look good in it, too.” 

Mick isn’t fooling himself, Callum is a good looking guy. And while normally the caps are Mick’s thing, he has to admit that they suit Callum, too. 

Callum waggles his eyebrows. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

They get interrupted by the door opening, Robert coming in with Marcus strutting behind him, grumbling something that Mick thinks might be chickens waking him up at ungodly hours. They sit down at the table, Marcus to Callum’s left, Robert to Mick’s right, and chat for a moment, before they’re all called for their respective interviews. 

The lights are too bright for Mick’s eyes and he’s not a fan of having his nose powdered every few minutes, but he goes through the questions smoothly, a smile never missing. The FDA interviews are the best, anyway. Much better than any other interview he’s had to do. He’s supposed to play some game with Robert later today, too, and he can take a guess that it’ll be the highlight of the day. 

After he finishes filming the first round interviews, Mick goes over to the canteen where he knows the lunch should be ready. He takes a plate and puts some meat on it before moving on to vegetables, the lectures about balanced meals forever ingrained in his brain. 

When he’s done picking food, he sees Callum waving at him, inviting to sit where he and the rest of the guys are. Mick manoeuvres between the tables, greeting all the people on his way before he reaches his own seat. He puts the plate down and falls on the chair, grimacing at the screech it makes when he pulls it out Callum involves him in the conversation immediately, and they discuss how the interviews has been going so far for them. 

“Give me some,” Marcus requests between telling a story and taking a sip of his drink. He takes a slice of pizza from Callum’s plate without waiting for the answer. 

“Marcus, darling, I love you dearly,” Callum begins. “But the food is mine,” he says, putting the pizza back on his own plate. 

Marcus flutters his eyelashes. “Callum, hun, be kind to me or you’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.” 

Robert makes a face at them. “Can you go and be gross somewhere else? People are trying to eat here, I’m sure Mick agrees.”

All eyes turn to him, and Mick stops with his hand in the air, fork halfway to his mouth. 

Callum pouts. “Mick is a dear and doesn’t mind it, right?”

It’s so obviously exaggerated that everyone sitting at the table either burst with laughter or rolls their eyes. Mick does neither, scratching the back of his neck instead and forcing a sheepish smile. “It’s okay, besides I’m nearly done with my food.” 

Truth be told, there is some awkwardness lingering after the scene he has just witnessed. Mick doesn’t know what’s between Callum and Marcus and he’d never dare asking them directly, but at the same time he also doesn’t want to sound like he’s spoiling their fun and limiting their freedom. So he chooses to keep quiet about it. 

They don’t get to talk about the situation more as they’re called for the remaining interviews soon enough. Mick doesn’t see neither Callum nor Marcus until the end of the day, focusing on what his task are. The day passes by in a flurry of cameras pointed at his face and Mick promptly forgets about the occurrence in the canteen, occupied with trying to show his best side. 

Callum catches him when Mick is on his way out of the factory, near the reception desk. He jogs towards Mick, a backpack slung on his shoulder and Marcus three steps behind him. 

“Sorry, I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable at lunch,” Callum says when he reaches Mick’s side. 

Marcus repeats the words. “Yeah, sorry mate.” 

Mick looks from on of them to the other, taking in their expressions. Callum does look apologetic and so did Marcus, at least until something else caught his attention. Mick doesn’t hold anything against them. Maybe his own reaction was a bit weird. 

“No, it’s fine, no need to apologise,” Mick assures them. 

Callum’s furrowed eyebrows suggest he might be sceptical, but he lets it go. 

“How about I make it up to you? I wanted to watch some films and since Marcus prefers to just exist,” he gives the youngest man a look, “Maybe you want to join and save me from getting bored to death?”

Marcus shows Callum the finger. 

“You’ll bore Mick to death first,” he shoots back. 

Mick watches on as they bicker for a moment, the argument of who’s the boring one seems to have no end. He’s ready to deny the invitation, make up some excuse on the spot and go back to the hotel he’s staying at for the next few days, but Callum is quicker. He puts an arm on Mick’s shoulder and grins. 

“You like Harry Potter? Lord of the Rings? We can play some games, too,” Callum says while Marcus’ mutters something that earns him Callum’s elbows between the ribs. 

Mick’s mouth says yes before his brain can think no. “Sure, it’s great.”

*

Mick finds himself on the sofa in the house Callum and Marcus rent from that Italian family that seems to have adopted him as their yet another son in the first five minutes of his stay here. Marcus has gone off to get them some drinks, refusing Mick’s help with carrying them, and Callum is scrolling through the film library, searching for something they can all agree on. 

The decide on The Lord of The Rings to appease Marcus a little, despite his loud protest to being bribed like that. Callum comments on the various part of the plot, making faces at scenes he find particularly amusing, and Mick listens to him, occasionally throwing in a word of his own. 

Halfway through the film, Marcus picks himself up from the sofa, stretching. “Okay kids, I’ve had my share of boredom. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m not here.”

He disappears in the other room, shutting the door behind him, leaving Mick with Callum only. Mick cannot find the explanation for the odd tension that’s swirling in his stomach.

“So, some games now?” Callum proposes, his body turned towards Mick now. He props his elbow on the armrest and waits expectantly. 

“Do you have any racing ones?”

They end up battling each other for every thousand of a second, much like on the real tracks. Callum gets pole, but it’s Mick particularly impressive overtake that changes their positions, Mick now it the lead. His fighting spirit is at an all high now, trying to break later, hit the apex better. It takes until the last lap for the results to be decided, but when they show up on the screen, Mick lets out a satisfied sigh. 

“I’ll get you back during the next race, you’ll see,” Callum promises when Mick crosses the finish line first once again. 

He narrows his eyes in what must’ve been intended as a threatening manner, but instead forces Mick to laugh instantly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” 

Callum starts the next game without a warning, even before Mick can grab his controller properly. “You’ll see.”

“I should get back to the hotel,” Mick says some time later when it’s becoming increasingly obvious that everyone in the house is most likely already asleep. There’s no noise coming from any other room, only the game music playing over and over again, the melody now rooted in Mick’s brain. 

Callum turns the tv off, standing up from the sofa. “Okay, I’ll drive you there.” 

Mick wants to protest, say that it isn’t necessary, but he finds himself unable to when Callum absolutely refuses to accept any refusal, joking that he’s not that bad of a driver for Mick to be so scared. They get in the car, Mick fastening the seatbelt when Callum is busy putting some music on. The first note are starting to play just as Mick has finished getting comfortable, the song choice making him take a turn. 

“Miley Cyrus? Really?”

“Don’t judge me, that’s not nice,” Callum says as he puts the volume higher. 

The ride is calm, Callum telling him the story of that one time he and Marcus decided to go to Bologna while Mick listens, the soft hum of the engine almost lulling him to sleep. They arrive at the hotel around twenty minutes later, Callum pulling up into a parking space reserved for the staff that Mick tactfully decides to keep quiet about. 

Mick grabs the door handle, ready say his thank yous and goodbyes, but Callum takes him by surprise, turning the engine off and getting out of the car first. He goes over to the passenger side of the car and waits until Mick manages to climb out of the red Alfa. 

“Thanks for tonight and for giving me a ride,” Mick says, grateful that he didn’t have to call a taxi in the end. His rental car is still parked in front of the factory and he hopes there won’t be any questions asked about it tomorrow. He doesn’t feel like explaining himself to everyone at Ferrari. 

“My pleasure.” Callum bows comically, hair falling to his forehead. Mick resists the urge to brush it back for him. “It was nice having over someone who watches the films instead of grumbling all the time for once,” he takes another dig at Marcus.

A moment later, Callum pulls him close, wrapping his arms around Mick’s shoulders. It’s not one of those half-hearted bro hugs Mick has received plenty of in his life, but rather a proper hug, lasting a good twenty seconds or so. At first, Mick stiffens a little, not having expected it, but soon, his own arms are around Callum’s waist, the older man’s cologne reaching his nose. 

When Mick gets out of the shower, he finds a new WhatsApp message waiting for him. It’s a selfie of Callum leaned over the dirty plates remaining after their film night, with the terrified emojis holding its cheeks added at the end of the caption. 

Mick feels a little guilty, despite having offered to help up with cleaning multiple times, Callum denying each of them. He texts Callum back, offering that next time he can organise something, and receives an emoji of the face blowing a kiss in return. 

*

Over the nearly two week break between Hungary and the first race at Silverstone, Mick travels back home, the flight to Switzerland thankfully not packed fully. His mum greets him with a kiss and so does Angie, and Mick just leaves his suitcase in the corridor because they’ve taken all of his attention ever since he opened the door. 

“You seem to be in a good mood,” his mum tells him one evening when they’re chatting about how the past few weekends have been for Mick. 

Mick takes a moment to ponder it. “I’m happy to be racing again. I missed it, I missed the cars, the guys. Everything really.”

Racing truly is what he loves the most.

“I know you did.” Corinna nods, offering Mick an apple. “I’m glad there’s someone making you happy.”

Mick scrunches his eyebrows, taking a slice and putting it in his mouth. He isn’t sure what she’s getting at as it’s his second year at Prema and most of the team he’s working now with have been there last year, too. He shrugs it off, not inquiring further. If she wants to talk, she will. After the years she has spent deflecting nosy reporters, Mick knows the last thing she would do is to pry when she knows it’s not welcome. It’s one of those lessons he learnt from her early on. 

The time he spends at home passes quickly and before Mick realises it, he’s already on his way to the airport. The plane isn’t leaving for another three hours, but he likes to arrive a little early, just in case something unexpected happens - like that time Robert got a flat tyre and missed his flight. 

Mick finds himself a relatively remote spot to wait at, sitting down with a cup of coffee that tastes horribly artificial in one hand and the phone in the other. He snaps a pic of one of the planes that has recently landed and captions it with _On my way to 🇬🇧_ , then posting it to his Instastory. 

He closes the app and proceeds to walk to the gate when the announcement calling the passengers travelling to England to board the plane resonates through the speakers. Mick lucks out by having the window seat, and he fishes for his phone to turn the airplane mode on before the take off. 

A dm waits for him when he unlocks the screen, a familiar name showing up as the sender. 

_Have a good flight_ by callum_ilott at 6:43. 

Mick’s mood is certainly good during the flight. 

*

After the two podiums Mick managed to snatch in Hungary, the first weekend at Silverstone is rather underwhelming. He only manages to score points in the feature race and there aren’t many of them in the first place. Mick files the weekend away as one of those to forget and focuses on what the next one may bring him. 

In the evening, after he finishes the team debriefs and whatever interviews he had scheduled, he lounges in his hotel room, trying to find something to occupy his mind. He opens the balcony door, deciding that a breath of fresh air might be exactly what he needs. 

On the neighbouring balcony, bit to his left, Mick notices a figure slouched on the floor, some sort of a drink held in one of their hands. He blinks a few times to recognise whoever it might be, his eyes not yet used to the sudden darkness, a stark contrast to his brightly lit room, and pauses when it’s Callum’s silhouette Mick understands he’s looking at. 

Mick takes a breath and hesitates before speaking up. He cannot tell whether it would be appreciated or if Callum would rather no one interrupts him. Home races are always special, Mick knows well, and they make you go that extra mile, so a one ending badly is even more of an upset than usual.

“Oh, hi Mick. I didn’t see you before.”

There’s little light outside, most of it illuminating onto the balconies from their rooms. From where it catches Callum’s face, Mick follows the dark shadows under his eyes, face appearing almost sickly pale in the yellowish glow. 

“I’m sorry,” Mick apologises. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

Callum laughs. “It’s alright, you didn’t intrude on anything. I was just sitting here, drowning in self-pity.”

He stretches out his legs and turns to the side, the two of them now facing each other. Mick mimics him carefully, smoothing down his trousers before he sits down, hands folded in his lap. They stare at each other for a moment wordlessly, the air filled with some heaviness Mick isn’t accustomed to. 

When he speaks up, Mick’s voice in quiet, soft. “I’m sorry for your race.”

Callum throws his head backwards, eyes turned up towards the sky. “It’s rubbish, but it is what it is.” 

Mick frowns, feeling helpless. He’d like to do something, comfort Callum somehow, but he knows best that it’s one of those situations where no words work and any _it’ll be better next time_ will have a sour taste to it. It’s up to Callum to get over it now. 

Callum breaks him out of his thoughts, starling him in the process. “You didn’t score any points today either, right?” 

Mick nods. “Unfortunately.”

“So how about we both just forget about it and eat Jaffa Cakes?” Callum continues, glancing towards his room. 

Mick raises an eyebrow. “Jaffa Cakes?”

“Don’t judge my comfort food, they’re good, okay? Wait a moment.”

Callum disappears in his room, leaving Mick on his own. As directed, Mick remains in place, fidgeting with the zip of his hoodie, waiting for Callum to return. There’s some rustling noise coming from Callum’s room, and Mick is tempted to ask if everything’s alright, but Callum emerges from it half a minute later. He’s holding a blue rectangular packaging in his hands that Mick recognizes from various ads playing on the English tv channels. 

Callum smiles triumphantly. “Found it.”

He rips the packaging open and stretches his arm out over the railing, offering the treats to Mick. 

Mick reaches out and grabs one of the cakes, taking a bite. It’s sweet and tastes slightly different to those he had in Switzerland before, but he can’t pinpoint exactly whether it’s the chocolate or the jelly. 

“Well?” Callum asks, expression expectant. He’s already eaten two of the cakes and there’s some chocolate smeared on his face, near the lips, that catches Mick’s attention even in the dark of the night. 

“Huh?” Mick blinks. “Yeah, they’re good, better than the Swiss ones.”

“Comfort food, I told you,” Callum says as he pushes another cake into his mouth. Mick doesn’t have the heart to worry about their diet regimes; he makes a mental note to count this as his next cheat meal instead. They both deserve a little treat today. 

Soon, the whole packaging is gone, Callum forming a ball out of the remaining foil and throwing it into the room. “What? I’ll throw it in the rubbish bin later.” 

Mick bites on his lip. “Nothing, I’m just wondering if your aim is as bad in real life as it’s in cod.”

The cheeky remark gets him a deadpan stare. “You’re a horrible friend, Schumacher.” 

Callum laughs anyway, and Mick considers it a mission accomplished. 

The silence is broken again when Callum crosses his legs at the ankles, his eyes now focused on the railing. He taps on it with his fingertips, some distinct rhythm Mick knows but can’t place. “Thanks, Mick.” 

Mick tilts his head, confused. “What for?”

“For cheering up your title rival,” Callum replies quietly; his voice sounds deeper than usually. “Don’t think I’ll let you off easily now, though,” he adds.

He turns his head to face Mick again, cheeks illuminated by the hotel lamps and the eyelashes casting long shadows over them. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, much softer than what the words imply, and Mick catches himself staring. 

Mick smiles back at him. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

*

The second weekend at Silverstone is of an entirely different variety. 

The feature race isn’t all that great for Mick, but points are points and there’s still the sprint race ahead to improve. Surprisingly, he’s not that much bothered. Like usual, he thanks the team for their hard work and then parks the car in the box after completing the cooldown lap. 

His engineer is already going on about the race when Mick is taking the helmet off and pushing the gloves off of his fingers. Mick nods and offers his own insights, but he gets distracted by the tv screen that’s hung on one of the walls of the box midway tyre preservation discussion. 

He catches a glimpse of the podium ceremony, Jack currently walking towards the lowest step, and leans on the back of the chair to have a better look. Christian is there a minute later, but the truth is, Mick isn’t paying a lot of the attention to either of them. Only when the winner is announced, Mick zones in on the silhouette emerging from the waiting room. 

Callum jumps on the highest step of the podium, waving at the UNI Virtuosi team that’s cheering him on from under the balcony. When the camera zooms in on his face, Mick can almost see the grin that must be radiating behind the mask, and it definitely gets wider when Callum grabs the trophy, holding it high in the air.

Mick recalls the talk they had last Sunday, the solemn mood it started in and how the absurdity of Callum sharing his comfort food was what actually made it better. He doubts Jaffa Cakes will be needed today, the taste of champagne having a much stronger effect. 

(For some reason he can’t quite figure out, he almost wishes they’d share the cakes today anyway.)

It’s his engineer’s voice that breaks Mick out of his little bubble out of a sudden. 

“Hello, earth to Mick.”

Mick forces his eyes away from the screen just as the British anthem starts playing. He flushes, wishing he’d have a cap with himself now. “Sorry, I got distracted.” 

“It’s okay, you’ll be up there on the podium soon enough again,” Antoine tells him, patting Mick on the thigh encouragingly. Mick appreciates the gesture, despite the entirely wrong belief that has provoked it.

“I sure hope so,” Mick responds, grateful that he doesn’t have to reveal the true reason of his distraction. 

*

The realisation comes late, and in hindsight, Mick should’ve known earlier. 

He’s always been a bit dense when it comes to anything to do with love, racing the main focus of his entirely life. Sure, he’s dated some people before and the understanding that his attraction isn’t only focus on women but also men hit him like a brick, but cars has always seemed more important. So whatever crushes he’s had before, he mostly brushed them aside, either ignoring completely or postponing thinking about them until later which, conventionally, never came. 

However, when Callum looks at him from the highest step of the Monza podium, eyes crinkling with unconcealed joy, Mick finally realises what the weirdly pleasant tightness in his chest is. 

_Fuck._

He doesn’t swear much but it’s one of those occasions that thoroughly deserve the word. 

It changes everything (or maybe already has done so), yet another variation added to an equation he isn’t sure he’s capable of solving. A simple friendship can suffer strains marked by a few thousands of a second and freshy scraped paint. _This_ is on an entirely different level. 

At the same time, it also changes nothing because it’s obvious that Callum with his flirty remarks directed at Marcus, Guanyu, Juan Manuel and whoever else, is not interested in Mick like that. 

(Mick doesn’t want to admit that he wishes he were on the receiving end of that flirting too, not even to himself.) 

He’s one of those people who gets along with everybody, Mick reasons. And it’s no surprise considering Callum’s magnetic personality, the cheerfulness and the banter he executes online just as well as he does in person. 

Mick has fallen victim to it, too easily perhaps. 

“Cheers, mate.”

Callum winks at him, an occurrence that lasts a whole two seconds before Christian comes over and sprays the rest of his champagne over them. Mick celebrates with them, but he’s only there physically, his mind in an entirely different place. His thoughts are a mess even when he returns back to his team, excusing himself with a headache that’s only a half lie. 

Developing a crush on his championship rival is the dumbest thing he could’ve done. 

*

Mick races hard, as if his whole life depended on the next corner and the chicane following, but it does little to help him deal with his feelings, his proven method not working this time. It’s probably to do with the fact that he sees Callum all the time, and whenever the older man issues him an invitation to a few rounds of some game, Mick’s mouth agrees before his brain can stop it. 

Sochi is another of those places that brings them close, both in the physical sense and when it comes to the numbers in the points classifications. They meet on the podium, share congratulations, and part ways in atmosphere that could have been described as friendly if it wasn’t so much more for Mick. 

That night, Mick has a hard time sleeping, a not so rare occurrence lately, and the walk he decides to take around the hotel corridors might not be a smart idea, but he certainly hopes it'll help. 

He doesn’t make it far, stopping by the staircase around the corner where he flops down on one of the stairs, resting his back against the greyish wall. The phone almost falls out of the too small pocket of his pyjama pants, and Mick catches it in the last moment, leaning over the device when it’s held safely in his palm. It’s hard to tell how long he remains in that position, he didn’t bother checking the time in the first place, but the steps coming from the inside of the corridor finally prompt him to move, head turning towards the sound of the noise. 

“Look at you, so full of joy. Just like someone who had just won a race or something.”

Callum’s sarcasm is so thick that Mick involuntarily smiles at the words; indeed, he must look like he had been taken out on the first lap rather than the victor of the race. 

“Hi,” Mick greets, moving over to the side a bit. Callum sits down next to him, their knees brushing as he finds a comfortable spot. It’s enough for Mick’s muscles to tense up with nervousness. 

Callum scans his face cautiously, as if searching for something. “Stressed?”

Mick is, but not for the reason Callum thinks. 

It might be the late hour or just the weight of the everyone’s expectations that finally gets to him, but Mick finds himself spilling what has been on his mind for the better part of the season. 

“Kinda. Everyone expects me to win and well,” he pauses without finishing the sentence. He’s not sure what else he could say. If there’s one person who can understand the constant pressure and the expectations of podium after podium, yet another win, it’s definitely Callum. 

Calum laughs without humour. 

“And everyone expects me to lose,” he says, eyes not looking at Mick but rather focused on some spot in space. “I’ve even had people ask me to let you win the championship,” he adds a moment later, the bitterness apparent in his tone. 

Mick feels a wave of anger wash over him at the words, both on his own behalf and Callum’s.

“I’m sorry, they shouldn’t say things like that,” he apologises, even though it’s no fault of his. “I wouldn’t want anyone to give me anything for free.”

He’d _hate_ it.

“I know, you wouldn’t and I wouldn’t give you anything for free either,” Callum assures. “It’s about respecting your rivals. I’m sure you get it.”

Mick does. 

“I can’t count how many times I’ve heard I’m not as talented as my dad, that I should win everything or else it means I’m where I am only because of my name,” he says a little later. 

It’s a burden he should be used by now, but there still are days when it gets to him. He’s learnt how to deal with it, mostly, but at times it doesn’t work and well, those times suck. Big time. 

Callum seems pensive. 

“You’re your own person,” he says carefully, as if worried it might not be what Mick wants to hear. “The name itself can’t win races, _you_ can.”

Mick’s shoulders sag. It’s nice of Callum to say all that in the first place, Mick wouldn’t expect any rival to do that for him, but it’s not exactly helping. He’s been struggling to make a name of his own for years and doing carting under a different name was definitely the right decision, but he wants neither having to hide his identity, not to be judged by it and not his skills. It’s difficult. 

“Thanks, that’s nice of you,” Mick gives his usual courteous response that has little to do with his true feelings. 

“Earplugs to tune out the haters, remember? And don’t you think it’s me who knows best how difficult it is to defeat you?” Callum nudges Mick in the shoulder. “My life would’ve been a lot easier if you had no talent but only the name.”

It does the trick, and Mick feels some weight being lifted from his shoulder. If anyone can talk about his skills, Callum is sure the right person to do so.

Except there’s the other side to this all, to Callum being so supportive when he probably shouldn’t, the one that makes Mick gravitate towards him even stronger, the crush not going anywhere.

Mick is screwed.

They both jump up when the lift doors open, startling them in the process, the sound not something either of them expected. 

“It’s time to sleep, I think,” Callum suggests as he stands up. “It’s probably like three or something.”

Mick follows suit, this time careful not to let his phone fall out of the pocket. He faces Callum and extends his arm. “Fair fight till the end.”

The grip Callum has on Mick’s hand is warm and secure. “Let the best win.” 

And it’s what gives Mick the final push. He’s not going down without a fight. 

*

Between the championship fight and his feelings for Callum, Mick finds himself threading on thin ice. 

They don’t talk often in the aftermath of their late night chat in Sochi, the title fight heating up and occupying most of Mick’s mind. He suspects it’s the same for Callum, but neither of them brings the topic up, so Mick doesn’t have the confirmation. 

At first, he thinks it might be a good thing, a bucket of cold water for his budding feelings and a chance to get back on the right track. It doesn’t take a long to prove him wrong, and instead of getting over Callum, Mick finds himself missing the man more. 

The championship fight interlaces with the F1 seat talks too, and it’s a blessing in disguise, allowing Mick to jump from one to the other almost constantly. Thankfully, they prove to be a much needed distraction, filling his schedule and not leaving that much time to guess and ponder.

(Still too much.)

When Mick leaves his signature on the contract, he’s ready to burst, the pride filling his chest. Only a few people know, the official announcement won’t be out for the next few days, but there aren’t many things Mick has looked forward just as much. 

_Formula 1 driver_ still sounds like a dream. 

And he knows this isn’t something he can attribute to his name only, though he’s certain the comparisons are inevitable. He’s oddly fine with them these days. 

Now, he only has to wait to for the second seat to be filled, the decision to be made within the next following weeks. And he’s heard it all, how he’s not supposed to be friends with his teammate, but he hopes for it to be Callum, more than anyone else. Even if he isn’t sure it’d make everything easier for him or rather have the opposite effect.

*

Mick’s hopes prove to be fruitless when Callum’s announcement comes, even before the final choice of the second Haas driver is made. 

Mick learns about it through social media, seeing the post in between the Ferrari poster for the next race and an advertisement of some car shampoo. He reads the caption three times, in some vain hope that maybe it will change its meaning. It doesn’t, obviously, and while the primary emotion filling his mind is sadness, Mick cannot stop the pang of hurt in his chest at having to find out like that.

It’s not like Callum owes him anything, Mick doesn’t see it this way at all. It’s just, he thought they were _friends,_ and now he isn’t so sure anymore. 

A thought strikes him when he’s reading the comments under the post, scanning them with his eyes more than taking the meaning in. At first it seems absurd, but Mick has little else to base his guess on.

Callum has never struck him as the jealous type, has never given that vibe off. But now with the seats on line, Mick cannot think of anything else. There’s no other logical explanation. And it stings even more after the talks they’ve had, especially that one from Sochi, like the words were empty and intent behind them fake. 

_As if Mick’s skills weren’t worth more than the name anymore._

Mick erases the text he had typed out and prepared to send. The Jaffa Cake he had for dessert leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

*

Neither of them scores points in the final race of the season and, those fourteen points of advantage Mick had before push the trophy right into his hands. There’s a flurry of emotions going through him, ranging from relief to joy so pure like he hadn’t felt before. The eighteenth position he finished in today doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, only the _one_ does.

Mick turns the engine of his car off, eager to get rid of the seatbelt as fast as he can. He fiddles with it for a bit, his hands trembling with every movement, the excitement so strong his whole body is shaking with emotion. It takes a few more tugs before it gives way, freeing him at last, and Mick reaches for the steering wheel, the last thing holding him in place. 

A shadow casts over him when he’s pulling on it, and Mick looks up, expecting to see someone from the team there, ready to congratulate him. He finds himself facing Callum instead, the older man leaning over the halo. 

“Congratulations, good job.”

There is a smile behind that mask, Mick is sure of it, and it confuses him even more. It contradicts everything he’s been on the receiving end of for the past few weeks. 

Callum offers him a hand to shake, and Mick grabs it with enough force to almost hurt. 

“Thank you,” he says, like he’s done countless times before. He isn’t sure he’s capable of any other words right now, his coherency gone.

One of his mechanics approaches him from the other side, slapping Mick on his shoulder, the congratulations a mix of jumbled words, English and Italian that normally wouldn’t much sense, yet today it does it perfectly. It forces Mick’s attention away from Callum as he accepts the congratulations, everything still feeling very unreal. 

Callum moves to the side, probably not wanting to interrupt, and Mick follows him with his eyes, not wating to let him go just yet.

“See you later, champ,” Callum says as he’s walking away, and Mick cannot wait for later to come. 

*

Rene’s questions comes as a surprise. Mick is in the middle of dressing up for the ceremony, half of his shirt’s buttons still undone and his hair not yet dry after the shower. He opens the door, not expecting his boss out of all people, and his confusion only grows from there. 

“Callum needs clothes for the ceremony?” he repeats in disbelief as Rene nods with badly hidden amusement.

“Yes, apparently he didn’t bring anything elegant to the end of the season. Who would’ve thought he might need them, right?”

Missing clothes is a problem Mick can help with. It’s something his mum taught him, that it’s always better to be safe than sorry, and he’s followed the rule ever since. He invites Rene in and goes over to where his suitcase it. 

“I have another shirt and a pair of trousers,” Mick says, taking the clothes out. “I think they should more or less fit?” 

*

Mick appears at the prize giving ceremony with a few minutes to spare, Yuki and the F3 guys already there but Callum nowhere in sight. He strikes a few conversations with various people, accepts congratulations and tries to judge how much time is left until it’s his time to appear on the stage to kill the time. Another half an hour, he estimates.

Callum appears by his side a moment later, looking slightly out of breath, as if he had ran instead of walking. “I’m on time, thank god. Not having any appropriate clothes is embarrassing enough,” he says, smoothing down the folds of the aforementioned clothes. 

Mick takes a better look at him. The shirt is a little loose on Callum’s smaller frame and the trousers are held in place by a belt, but god, Callum does look hot; there’s something about the older man wearing his clothes that makes Mick both quite a bit hot and quite a bit bothered. Mick is sure he must be staring, but he cannot keep his eyes away. The fact that Callum left the top buttons open don’t help at all. 

He goes through the prizegiving on autopilot, accepting the trophy and giving the interview, posing for the photos when they’re asked to. He doesn’t remember much of what he’s done or said, all his senses focused on how the metal of the trophy feels under his fingertips. 

Callum approaches him after all the photoshoots, his own trophy still in his hand. Mick’s skin almost burns where Callum’s hand is touching his back gently, and when their eyes cross, Mick realises that yes, he’s still very much in love. 

“Thank you for lending me the clothes.” Callum pulls on the blue sleeve, smoothing out some wrinkles. “You saved my life.”

Mick is torn between looking at the clothes or at his face, both sights mesmerising. He glances at his own shoes, trying to knock some sense into himself, but to no avail.

“No problem, I brought a second set of clothes just in case,” Mick says when he’s sure his voice is steady enough. “You were the case.”

“Mister prepared, aren’t you?” Callum teases, and Mick is grateful for the mask covering his blush. His cheeks might combust any second, the warmth must be radiating from them. It’ll be a miracle, if Callum doesn’t pick up on it. 

Mick laughs nervously, unsure whether Callum means it in a good way or bad. “It could be a German thing.”

Callum hums, accepting the explanation. Mick isn’t sure how it happened, but they’re walking towards the hotel entrance together, Callum’s hand still pressed against his back. It’s a short walk, a few minutes at most, and Mick can’t tell what he’d like more – for it to end asap, so he can stop embarrassing himself or for it to last forever, so he can’t enjoy Callum’s presence longer. 

“I like it,” Callum admits, offering Mick a grin. “It’s a good thing.” 

When they’re approaching the building, Callum waves at someone Mick doesn’t recognise. It’s probably someone from the team, one of the engineers or a mechanic maybe, Mick isn’t sure and Callum doesn’t say. It’s his cue to get going, Mick is aware, but Callum’s touch feels too damn good. 

“I have to go now, but I’ll see you later, okay?” Callum asks; Mick nods automatically. “I need to return the clothes. Do you want me to wash them first?”

Mick shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. You can keep them, if you want,” he says. It doesn’t really matter what Callum does to the shirt and the trousers, and a part of Mick actually wants him to keep the clothes. 

Callum winks at him. “See you later.”

*

Around ten, there’s a knock on Mick’s door, distracting him from the series he’s been watching. 

The team celebrations didn’t last long, they have a proper party planned when they return to Italy, so Mick has been in his hotel room for an hour or so already. He pauses the episode and picks himself up from the bed, ~~hoping~~ guessing who might be on the other side of the door. 

“Hello, Mister Prepared,” Callum greets, and Mick flushes instantly. “I came to return these.”

He points with a chin to the shirt and trousers, _Mick’s shirt and trousers,_ neatly folded in his arms. They’re slightly wrinkled but other than that, there’s barely any sign someone wore them at all. 

Mick moves aside, leaving the door wide open, his heart thudding when he asks the question. “Do you want to come in for a moment?”

Callum gives him a nod and walks in.

They sit down on Mick’s bed, the clothes lying on the bed cover in between them. Mick’s nerves are on fire, his stomach doing somersaults. He fiddles with the zip of his hoodie, up and down and again, unable to compose himself. It’s quiet for a moment, as if neither of them dares to break the silence, be the first one to speak.

“I’m happy that it was you I was racing against,” Mick blurts out a moment later, his voice cracking at one point. “If you’d have won, I’d have been happy for you.” 

He hopes his earnestness transfers well into the words, because he absolutely needs Callum to know that. Mick cannot express all his gratitude, not only for how Callum had pushed him to the absolute limit, helping his become a better driver, but also for the encouragement Mick didn’t know he craved so much for.

Callum puts a hand on Mick’s shoulder, the gesture familiar by now, but somehow still making Mick’s hair stand on edge. 

“I’m disappointed that I didn’t win, obviously,” Callum says, holding Mick’s eyes; Mick expected no less. “But I’m happy that you won. You were the best.”

Mick has heard those words a hundred times by now, but it’s the first time his cheeks flush at the praise. “Thank you. You were amazing as well.”

Callum smiles at him, the smile true, reaching both his lips and eyes. 

“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me because I got the seat,” Mick admits at one point, the _and you didn’t_ untold but the implication strong enough. It’s been bothering him for a while and he’d rather have everything out in the open than going through it over and over again on his own.

Callum frowns, the expression almost strange on his normally cheerful face; it’s not something Mick is used to.

“Last weeks have been difficult for me,” Callum confesses, open and honest. Mick hangs onto every word. “But I’m not angry with you or anything. I’m happy for you, you deserve the seat. I just think I also deserve it.” 

Mick catches his eyes. “I think you deserve it, too.”

Callum stares at him for a moment, before grabs the clothes still lying between them and moves them aside. He inches closer, their thighs now brushing against each other, the heat radiating from his body warming Mick up. Mick’s heart is ready to jump out of his chest, his breathing shallower and more erratic. 

_He can’t be reading the signs wrong._

Yet, he’s afraid that he is. 

Mick doesn’t dare moving, limbs frozen. He waits, counts the seconds pass, one, five, ten, any rational thought thrown out the window. His mind is running faster than the car he drives, only one word, Callum’s name, playing on repeat. 

Before anything can happen, Callum laughs, leaving Mick flabbergasted. Mick isn’t sure what exactly he expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. “What?”

Callum puts a hand on Mick’s thigh, patting it lightly. “I think that this is the moment when I’m supposed to deliver some amazing pick up line that will sweep you off your feet, isn’t it?”

Mick gapes, the words not registering at first. When they finally sink in, the wave of happiness that erupts in his chest is enormous, and Mick feels lightheaded with all the joy he’s been high on all day.

 _Could today be any more perfect?_

Mick takes a deep breath to regain some composure, but the giddiness refuses to leave. “It might be,” he begins to answer the question, but his voice cracks with laughter by the second syllable. “Try me?” 

Callum kisses him, hot lips pressed against Mick’s. 

Mick almost pinches himself, it all seems too good to be true, but Callum’s arms wrapping around his waist, massaging his back feel very real. Mick turns a bit, getting more comfortable, his fingers tugging at the strands of Callum’s hair gently. His mouth falls open on its own, and Callum doesn’t waste any time in deepening the kiss, his fingertips teasing at the edge of Mick’s shirt gently. 

When they part a good few minutes later, Callum’s eyes are shining, and Mick isn’t sure he’s going to catch his breath anytime soon. 

“I like you,” Callum confesses, and the butterflies nearly rip Mick’s stomach from the inside. 

“I didn’t think you liked me back,” Mick admits, grinning sheepishly. “You were flirting with everyone around but not with me, so I didn’t think I had any chance.”

“I was flirting with them jokingly,” Callum says, moving even closer. Mick’s breath catches in his throat once again. “With you, I was flirting for real. Actually, I was trying to woo you for the whole season, inviting you over, bringing you coffee and stuff, and it didn’t seem to work well. I wasn’t sure you were into me.” 

Mick remembers the late night talks, playing games, and all the heart-to-hearts they’ve had. Now that it’s in his face, he can see that he was rather oblivious. 

“God, I’m a fool, aren’t I?” Mick asks rhetorically, not waiting for Callum’s response. “So, maybe you could flirt with me some more? Maybe over a dinner tonight? I can order some fancy room service.”

They have a lot to make up for, after all.

“I like the way you think, and I sure will be flirting a lot more with you from now on.” Callum’s smirk makes Mick feel _things._ “I can start even now.”

“Can you?” Mick teases back, eagerness at whatever Callum has bubbling inside him, buzzing in his head. 

Callum leans closer, his lips now next to Mick’s ear, the warm breath fanning over Mick’s skin evoking shivers. 

“Sure,” Callum confirms, still smirking. “ _Hi, I’m a racing driver._ How about that?”

Mick groans. “I can’t believe you used that one on me.” 

God, Callum can be horrible at times, and Mick likes him all the more for that. 

Callum grins, apparently very proud of himself. “Did it work?”

Mick simply kisses him again. “Maybe it did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ❤️
> 
> Also, if any of you recognise me from the motogp fandom, I deeply apologise for not responding to comments and being inactive in general. My mental energy has been low for a long time now, but I’ll get to it when I’m better


End file.
